


Inheritance

by TheHuggamugCafe



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Additional Tags To Be Added In Future, Angst, Atheism, F/M, Rating Will Go Up As Fic Progresses, Reader-Insert, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28862826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHuggamugCafe/pseuds/TheHuggamugCafe
Summary: An inheritance is the beginning of your troubles.
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24





	Inheritance

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Love You Deerly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22072852) by [CrabbyMaiden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrabbyMaiden/pseuds/CrabbyMaiden). 



> I’m gonna be straight with y’all: I’m going in blind, as blind as a bat you might say. I’m playing this “by ear,” if you will.
> 
> I literally have no shame for putting Reader through the mill already, and she hasn’t even _done anything_ to earn it.
> 
> But here we are.
> 
> Please let me know what you think of this.
> 
> A big and most welcomed shout-out goes to my dear friend, DragonsInkwell (Lafrenze), for giggling about this with yours truly.
> 
> Do look forward to a collection titled _Inheritance Side Stories_ , a series I plan on uploading in the coming days!
> 
> One last thing: A heartfelt thanks goes to CrabbyMaiden, for inspiring this dreadful fic!
> 
> Edit: I’ll have to tidy up this intro chapter a bit, particularly the ending. It doesn’t make sense to me.

When your grandmother’s final days were quickly approaching, you honestly didn’t expect much from her. Hell, you didn’t expect much from your family and relatives, those who you knew and those you recognized from photos.

You expected nothing but for her to prove all of the doctors and nurses wrong, _wrong_ , _**wrong**_.

You loved your grandmother dearly. After your grandfather died a few years ago, she was like her own sun, casting a bright, seemingly eternal light in your otherwise boring, day-to-day life. She was a kind and generous soul, someone who refused to let the solemn and cold loneliness of her home—a house that no longer had a strong-willed, gruffly speaking elderly man in it—snuff out her warmth. You often found yourself doubting the “rough estimates” of the doctors, telling your family in hushed whispers how much time the stubborn old woman had left. Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Months became a tiny, very tiny, handful of years.

You would be lying if you claimed that you weren’t feeling cocky, if you didn’t think that you were so sure that your grandma would live.

_If anybody can beat cancer, surely Nan can! She’s the strongest woman I know, and as headstrong as an ox!_

Or so you thought.

In the end, you bitterly concluded that it was nothing more than wishful thinking. A sentiment born from a granddaughter wishing that her beloved, sweet granny would _live_. Whenever you were alone, you wondered if she wondered how everyone would fare once she was gone, no longer there to lighten the mood or make someone’s day better.

You remembered the way she smiled at you; you remembered her aged fingers caressing your cheek, wet with tears; you remembered that even though she was standing on death’s doorstep, she was still kind.

You remembered the way her loving stare betrayed worry; she was concerned for you, for the family, even in the state she was in at the time.

You remembered the way her wrinkled hand held yours, how her chapped lips whispered the love she had for you, and giving you a few parting, well-intended words of advice as she bid you farewell.

“ _Please don’t cry, my darling. Don’t be hard on yourself and don’t give your parents, your aunts, uncles, and cousins too much trouble.”_

“ _I’m going on ahead; I’m going to see your grandfather. And that’s not a bad thing, so keep that chin up for me, honey.”_

_“Don’t come to see us too soon, alright? I’ll be sure to give you a good finger wagging if you do.”_

“ _If something feels easy, don’t do it. If something feels wrong, don’t do it.”_

“ _Do your best; that’s all you can do in life. Give it your all, even if you fail. I’ll always be proud of you, no matter what you achieve or how many times you flounder.”_

“ _Stay gold, my precious little duckling. Stay gold. Remember that your Nana loves you. I love you so, so much.”_

In the end, the telltale _be-be-beep_ of the various machines proved you wrong. The flat lines proved what the doctors had been saying, what the nurses had told you and _told you_ all along was correct. Your grandmother _didn’t_ cheat death; the reaper came for her. As you knew he would, deep down inside; you just didn’t want to admit it. You didn’t want to concede your defeat. You didn’t want to admit being _wrong_. She went to join your grandfather, facing whatever awaited her when her physical self was no more. Meanwhile, you—the mourning granddaughter, one of them—were the one who was sorely mistaken. Not the doctors. Not the nurses.

It was as though some cruel, heartless twist of fate was _laughing at you_.

It was as though that very same gnarled fate had taken your hope into its mouth, chewed it, and spat it back in your face in a disgusting wet ball, cackling at your distress all the while.

You were heartbroken. Inconsolable even, some might say.

You dissolved into a fit of tears, sobbing, and snot right then and there in the hospital room she expired in. You still held her hand as it slowly became stiff and cold, clutching it tightly in yours even as death embraced her, welcoming your grandmother into an eternal sleep. In Room 202.

How ironic that she would pass, leave the world in the same hospital her grandchildren had been born in.

“ _She’s in a better place now.”_

“ _She’s gone to be reunited with your grandfather, sweetheart.”_

That was all your parents had to say about the matter. The other members of the family, your aunts and uncles and cousins, they all offered you pats on the back that added to the weight on your shoulders; they gave you hugs that radiated no warmth, or robbed your body of the endless chill that possessed it; one by one, they each murmured seemingly empty words of comfort that ultimately fell on deaf ears.

The waking procession and funeral went as your grandfather’s had. The priest overseeing the funeral offered you and the other attendees his sincere condolences, assuring everyone present that God would look after your grandmother’s soul. He would have a place for her by His side for eternity—but to you, it was merely sweet nothings uttered by a man clad in a white robe, and not by the unseen and silent God he followed. It didn’t put you at ease. Family and relatives and friends of your grandparents wept.

Men who you had never personally met before, but vaguely recognized to be friends of your grandfather due to pictures you’d seen from his time as a soldier during the Vietnam war, were the pallbearers for your granny’s coffin. You remembered how they were dressed in impeccable suits and ties, walking on shiny leather heels, carrying your grandmother to her spot in the chapel with hands clad in white gloves.

In the graveyard, red roses were tossed into the empty plot where, soon, your grandmother’s body would be laid to rest next to her husband. Out of respect for her final wishes, she and your grandfather would be side-by-side in death, sleeping the never-ending nothingness away in mahogany coffins lined with velvet interior. Their eternal resting place would be marked by an adjoined headstone bearing their names, the year of their births and deaths, and the epigraph dedicated in their fond memory.

If there was a God, He was surely laughing at how much of a wistful little fool you were.

If there was a God, He was no doubt enjoying Himself, watching you wallow in your misery. You took praying to Him seriously for once in your life, and what was the result?

A bitch slap to the face and a silent “fuck you” to kick you in the chest, which did nothing to calm the frantic racing of your heart as it drummed in your chest, wrapped in a furious firestorm of mourning.

You lost what little faith you had in God that day. You denounced Him, silently cast Him aside beneath a sky with gloomy grey clouds that wept a cold rain down upon everyone in attendance, paying their final respects to your grandmother.

For a moment you couldn’t help but wonder that if God didn’t—if He _wouldn’t—_ care, maybe His angels _**did**_? You grew up believing that whenever it rained, especially a downpour, it meant that the heavenly host was weeping, so the rain that fell during your Nana’s funeral procession was particularly telling.

That was what you tried to tell yourself, anyway; it was just another whimsical bout of wishful thinking.

What use did you have for a silent God and His nonexistent angels, who wouldn’t even answer your first—and your _last_ , admittedly—sincere prayer, after all?

You wanted nothing to do with a God who wouldn’t at least _humour_ you; you wanted nothing to do with His heavenly host, His messengers of faith and mercy who wouldn’t test the shaky conviction you had in Him.

The inheritance meeting came and went. You were nothing more than a blank, vacant-eyed attendee, halfheartedly listening as your name inevitably left the lips of the attorney in a crisp suit and tie.

“To my beloved granddaughter, I leave behind…”

You tuned it out. You shut yourself off from the world. You listened, but nothing registered to you. Your mind was filled with a thick fog; your brain fizzled with static, dulling it with numbness. You thought you heard the attorney mentioning one of your cousin’s names, and what he or she would gain from your grandparents, but it didn’t matter to you. In that time, and in that room made of wood and glass and leather seats and a carpeted floor, nothing mattered to you. The world may as well have ground to a halt, pausing as an unseen stop button was pressed.

You just wanted to mourn your grandmother in silence and peace. Was that too much to ask?

* * *

You forgot all about what you ended up inheriting from your Nana until you came home from work one day, a few weeks later. You ogled the large package that greeted you as you fetched the mail, equal parts surprised and curious. It took you several moments to realize that whatever the package contained, it was what your granny had left behind for you; it was your inheritance. It took you twice that amount of time to _finally_ pick up the wrapped box, quietly cursing its weight as you balanced it along with the mail. You held it in a precarious manner, balancing the hefty package with the small stack of mail on top, pausing only to unlock your front door with the house key dangling from your keyring.

The thump as you rested the hefty box on your kitchen table was obvious; it was followed by the crisp shuffle of several sealed envelopes, bills and junk mail, sliding to the table that shone with a mirror-like finish. At first, you assumed it was a harmless little mistake. Surely your loving Nana wouldn’t gift you with… _whatever_ the god-be-damned package contained. Sighing, quietly deciding that it was better to get it over with now, you pried off the bland wrapping, pausing only to make sure that your name and address were there, stamped in the corner. They were.

 _Dammit,_ you mentally cursed, cutting the boxing tape with a box cutter, and opened the cardboard box.

Puzzled, you reached in, shifting all ten fingers and two palms around. The first thing you took out was a sealed envelope, bearing your name written in your Nan’s cursive writing. You set it aside; you’d check its contents later. Next, you took out a few cooking utensils: a glass pan for baking bread, a cupcake pan, and a knife block. The knives were wrapped in the bubble wrap, crinkling as they were set aside. Next, you pulled out a tea set. The familiar blue flowers rimming the edges made you smile. These cups had always been your favourite to use for tea parties growing up.

 _What else is in here?_ you mused silently, reaching your hands back inside the big cardboard box. The cool bubble wrap was all that greeted you—until your knuckles bumped against something hard and wooden, that is. Carefully, you peeled away the bubble wrap. You wedged your hands beneath the mysterious object, pulling it up from its cardboard container.

A radio. Its appearance made you think that the 1920s were saying…

“ _Why, hello there, little darlin’!”_

Talk about a blast from the past. That, and then the _stench_ hit you like a punch to the face, but without the feeling of a fist or the pain of having your lights knocked out. Vaguely, it reminded you of sulphur mixed with roadkill that had been left to bake on a hot day on a dirt road for far, far too long. You coughed, eyes watering as you pressed the collar of your shirt to your nose.

If its appearance—and how it stank to high heaven—was anything to go by, then it certainly had seen better days. More like better decades. A twinge of sympathy hit you; your grandmother knew you loved antiques. She knew you went gaga for _anything_ that was even mildly vintage, and this radio certainly piqued your interest.

However, if the layer of grime and the dust that coated the face plate could be said for how timeless the bulky radio was, then your first task was simple.

Soon, the stench of lemon-scented cleaning solution wafted off of the rag you clenched between fingers, covered by yellow rubber gloves. A cloth was pressed to your mouth, tied around the back of your head, so you didn’t breathe in the strong chemical.

All the while you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched.

But such a notion was dismissed with a simple shake of your head, scrubbing down the aged antiquity even harder. You lived alone; logically, there was no way anyone was eyeing you.

Still, that did nothing to ease the spell of anxiety that washed over you out of nowhere. It didn’t stop the hairs on your nape from rising, and it didn’t stop the tingling of gooseflesh from tickling your arms. So to calm the sudden case of jitters that plagued you, you hummed a tune to yourself. It was a tune that Nan would sing to you when you or your cousins were sick, or you couldn’t sleep whenever you and your family, relatives included, slept over at your grandparents on weekends and holidays.

The difference between you and her? You couldn’t sing worth a damn, not even if your life was at stake and a gun was pressed to your head, and someone demanded you to do so in your final moments on Earth. Even so, that didn’t stop you from doing as you pleased. The humming tickled the back of your throat as the cloth—stinking with lemon-scented cleaning solution—gingerly wiped on and around the radio dials, scrubbed the face plate to a mirror finish, and polished the wood until its shine made your eyes hurt.

When was the last time Nan even touched this radio? Did she put it away after your grandfather had died? It seemed like such a shame to put a marvellous antique away, even if it was what Pop had asked her to do.

“There. Good as new. _Better_ than new! I think,” you said, ignoring the doubt that edged your voice as you talked. For a moment you considered taking a screwdriver to the back of the old-time radio, popping it open to see how choked of dust it was, but then you thought it was better not to.

You’d rather not wind up damaging the inner workings of the radio, simply because you wanted to keep it clean. A weary sigh left you as you untied the cloth, removing it from your face before you tugged the cleaning gloves off of your hands, setting them and the cloth on the table away from the bulky cardboard box.

Curiosity bit you like a fire ant and so, you reached for the sealed envelope, prying open the sealed flap with a crisp rip and tear. One simple peek inside told you all you needed to know. There was a small wad of cash in the envelope; mostly fifties and twenty dollar bills, but the occasional hundred could be seen. You would be set to pay your bills and buy groceries for a month or two, and provided you didn’t give in to buying things you didn’t need on impulse, you’d put what was left over for a rainy day.

On top of the bills was a folded piece of paper. It crinkled and so did the envelope as you reached in, removing it with a quiet shuffle.

The first sentence made your heart pound, calling forth the familiar sting of waterworks to prick at your eyes. You felt your lips trembling as your vision became distorted, became little more than a blurry kaleidoscope of colours and shapes.

“ _To my little butterfly…”_

That had been your Nana’s nickname for you growing up, always saying how you were very much like a floating butterfly, bringing optimism to a dull and dreary day, or cheering someone up with your bright smiles and energetic presence. In a macabre roundabout way, you doubted you could accomplish such a thing in the present. You took a moment to compose yourself, taking in air and releasing it in a slow, steady exhale.

“ _When you read this letter, I will be gone. The doctors, the nurses, I overhear them telling everyone that it’ll be a miracle if I live to see next month. I know it’s not easy to accept that the end is right in front of you; who knows that better than an old lady stricken with cancer, after all?_

“ _I’d be a liar if I said that I’m fine with how this will inevitably end. I’m scared, my darling. I’m scared of so many things…_ _I’m scared to not wake up one day. I’m scared to no longer being able to see you, all of you. I’m terrified of not hearing your voices, what you all look like, to feel your warm hugs, and hear you all tell me how I’m loved and appreciated… I’m scared to cease **existing**.”_

For the second time since you opened the envelope and began to read your Nana’s parting words, your mouth wobbled. You felt the frantic rate of your heart, pounding in your breast much like a songbird in flight; you felt a fresh onslaught of heated moisture gathering in your eyes, doubling the distortion that was your perception.

“ _But… As there is life, there is also the inescapable fact that the reaper comes for us all. I’ve felt the barely-there brush of his scythe against me, patiently waiting to claim my soul, ever since your grandfather passed… I’ve lived a long and happy life, with him and with all of you. I can leave this world hoping that even after I’m gone, a kindling of goodness will still be in your lives._

“ _This is, in part, why I’m entrusting your grandfather’s radio to you. I know how much you love antiques, and I hope that this radio brightens up your day when you’re feeling down.”_

In your peripheral vision, you eyed the bulky item siting on your kitchen table. Against the backdrop of your kitchen that doubled as a dining room, the antique radio looked almost out of place when compared to the modernity surrounding it. Your attention fell back on the letter you held in a shaky grip, but your mind couldn’t seem to process what you were reading. A few parts jumped out at you here and there, but the sentences, the words didn’t fully register with your brain that felt like it was nowhere but everywhere simultaneously.

“… _Want only the best for you…”_

“… _I want you to know nothing but happiness…”_

“… _Remember to stay gold…”_

“… _Make me and your grandfather proud, darling…”_

“ _Lots of love, Nana.”_

The last line pulled you out of your stupor. You felt yourself pulling back from the letter, not noticing the tear drops besmirching the written words and messing up the ink. You sniffled, breathing a wet cough. You raised a hand, dabbing at your heavily watering eyes with the sleeve of your shirt, wiping away the tear lines that streaked your flushed cheeks.

“Nan… Nan… _Nana_.”

You didn’t cry at your Pop’s wake or funeral, though you had bawled like a baby upon his passing, just as you had done when your grandmother left the world to the next in a hospital bed. Your shoulders heaved, shuddering as you repressed the sudden urge to empty your stomach to the best of your ability.

“She’s gone… Pop’s gone… Gone and never coming back… Get a grip on yourself, you fool.”

Your bitter pep talk did little to uplift your mood. You knew you couldn’t sit at the kitchen table and weep like a baby, despite it being precisely all you felt like doing. The letter rustled crisply as it was set down on the table, laying on top of the opened envelope stuffed with money. Your eyes slowly trained on the radio, lips pursed as you figured that the end table adjacent to the entertainment centre would be perfect for it.

It was a pain in the ass to carry the bulky radio from the kitchen to the living room, but you’d be a liar to say that you weren’t relieved when it was set down on the coffee table without issue, say for getting an index finger caught. You put the stinging finger on the back burner, backtracking to the kitchen to fetch some more cleaning supplies.

You took the time to carefully pull the end table out, dusting, sweeping, and mopping away all the nasty gunk that had accumulated behind it and on it since it was last cleaned until, finally, you felt satisfied. The radio felt less clunky, like you could handle it without fear of dropping it and ruining, _destroying_ , one of the last physical connections you had with your grandparents in the process. You picked up the cord, feeling slightly apprehensive before you inserted it into the outlet.

Much to your surprise, there was no stink of smoke, no fire gutting it from the inside-out. There was a faint crackle, a hiss of static, but that was to be expected. You watched, quietly delighted, as the face plate lit up with a soft glow. You couldn’t help but laugh as you reached forward, intending to see if it worked beyond what it already did.

Curiosity hit you full force as you fiddled with the round knobs, turning them left and right, watching the radio dial swing back and forth until a song slowly churned out from the speakers.

“Oh… This is…”

You fell silent, listening as the introduction was quiet, but it didn’t last for more than a few seconds. The title of the song lingered on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn’t place its name or the singer.

Regardless, the music was unsurprisingly catchy, not at all like the beats the radio stations belched out in the present time. You found yourself humming along to it, tapping your foot as you swiped down the front of the end table shoved up against the wall next to the entertainment centre. The yellow rubber glove contrasted with the bland cloth that stank of cleaning solution, a scent which you tried to ignore as you gave the end table another once-over with the damp wash cloth.

You pulled back to admire your handiwork, smiling as the wood’s shine matched the radio’s mirror polish. “No sense in putting a clean radio on a dirty table. A _mostly_ clean radio, anyway.” As though your words were some kind of unspoken cue, your eyes darted back to the radio, still belting out the upbeat tune.

_We’re all alone, no chaperone_

And just like that everything around you slowed to a full-on stop. Your breathing hitched, heart pounding in your breast as you leered at the radio in your peripheral vision. You didn’t notice the damp wash cloth slipping from your hand, hitting the tile floor with a dull flap. You busied yourself by pivoting sharply on your heels, raising a hand to point at the radio while gaping stupidly.

_World’s in slumber, can’t get our number_

_I’ve… never heard this song before… Have I?_ Your body contradicted your logic down to every icy needle that stabbed the curve of your spine, every kindling of gooseflesh that curdled your flesh. _Then… Why am I acting like this?_ You had no idea; it was _just_ a song, after all! “One of Nan’s favourite songs, too…”

_Let’s misbehave_

If you expected your mopey whisper to silence the radio or make the song skip, you were sorely mistaken. It kept on playing, blissfully ignorant of your ill mood shift. There was no point in glaring daggers at an inanimate object or pointing at the damn thing, but you did it anyway. “Yeah… I must’ve heard it at Nan and Pop’s place. That’s gotta be it…”

_Let’s misbehave_

You couldn’t count the number of times you saw your grandparents dancing to the music that reminded them of their younger days. Still… That didn’t explain why you reacted—and still _were_ reacting—the way you did to a song that implored you to _misbehave_.

_There’s something wild about you, child_

The odd sensation that crawled over you was like nothing you had experienced before in your life. To you, it felt like the icy fingers of Death were tracing a path down the curve of your spine, slowly, leaving a silent call of something that you could pin as being undeniably _fear_. Trepidation might as well have formed a fist and slammed you in the gut. It took everything you had, _everything you possessed_ , not to double over and gasp for air.

_When Adam won Eve’s hand_

You stayed where you were, freezing comically in place as your gaze fixated on the radio. You were the picture perfect example of awe: bug-eyed, breaking out in a cold sweat, mouth hanging agape as an index finger pointed uselessly at the radio, innocently belting out the upbeat and jazzy music.

_He wouldn’t stand for teasin’_

_Now you’re being silly!_ Your mind chastised you for acting—and reacting—in the way that you were. A frown pursed your lips as the finger that indicated at the radio dropped to hang at your side, slowly. _You’re freaking out over a **radio** ; aren’t you too old for this kind of thing? _You breathed out a huff, eyes narrowing as you approached the radio, raising a hand to one of the knobs, fully intending on switching it off.

_He didn’t care for those apples out of season_

Your fingers hovered near the knobs, stopping just inches shy of touching the first one you spotted. You swallowed; the gulp was thick. You felt it, the gulp, stubbornly sticking to your esophagus as it travelled down to your gut, where it did somersaults in silent anxiety.

_If you’d be so sweet_

_It’s a radio, you moron; it can’t hurt you! Just turn it off!_ Your mind scolded you for your baseless reactions, once again. You were just… making a big deal out of literally _nothing_ , as usual. But… But…

_And only meet your fate, dear_

Why were you hesitating? Why were you fretting over something so mundane as _this_? It was a relatively simple thing to, a laughably easy thing to do, in fact. Turning off a radio was as simple as baking apple pie. You didn’t want to _touch it_ , despite it being part of your inheritance. But you wanted to _silence this song_. Didn’t you? _Didn’t you?_

_It would be the great event of 1928, dear—_

With a flick of your wrist, the music was effectively cut off, silenced. You watched, feeling totally on edge while levelling a stare that was almost _accusatory_ at the inanimate object. You waited, waited, and waited. Nothing happened. But even that didn’t stop you from casting a nervous glance over your shoulder; a bit of a habit of yours, if nothing else.

_So… Why do I **still** feel like I’m being watched?_

You shook the thought out of your head, literally. “It’s _just_ an old-fashioned radio,” You said, muttering soft assurances under your breath. The feeling of little needles pricking your fingers clued you in that yes, you were still pinching the round knob between your thumb and forefinger. “You’re being stupid…” You didn’t stop glowering at the silent radio, as though you expected it to contradict you somehow. “Calm down. Geez…”

Your confidant words didn’t match with the wary leer you honed in on the radio. The chill failed to leave you, choosing instead to leave a tingling feeling down your arms, your back not unlike the gooseflesh that plagued you moments ago. What were you expecting from it, exactly? To sprout legs and walk around? Form a wide, grinning mouth lined with fangs? Say _“boo, nice to meet you”_?

You exhaled a sigh, feeling a wave of exhaustion washing over you as you pulled back, walking over to where you dropped the wash cloth earlier. You stooped down, picking it up, sparing a glance over your shoulder to stare at that godforsaken radio.

Suddenly, a high-pitched buzz nearly made you jump out of your skin. Your gloved fingers clenched the washcloth so tightly, your knuckles were surely blanching beneath the rubber material covering them. You rode the wave of relaxation that came over you, calming down once you realized that it was the microwave’s timer going off; nothing to get worked up over, really.

“Time for dinner…”

Nothing answered your announcement, but you were too tired to care. On your way to the kitchen, however, you started to hum. “They say the Spring means just one thing to little lovebirds… But we’re not above birds… Let’s misbehave.”

You continued to hum even as you stood in front of the microwave, heating it up what was inside for another minute. You continued to hum _“Let’s Misbehave”_ under your breath. You tried to mimic Cole Porter crowing how everyone was all alone without a chaperone, and the whole world was asleep.

“Can’t get our number…”

_Beep, beep, beep—_

“Shut up,” You hissed, silencing the confounded machine with a simple gesture. You pressed the button, watching as the door popped open, revealing a steaming bowl of mac and cheese. “Heaven…” You removed what was to be your supper; a quick pick-me-up in the form of leftovers. The door was shut with a nudge of your elbow, steam wafting up from the sorry excuse of a meal, but food was food even if it wasn’t good for you.

A thought occurred to you as you dug through the fridge, selecting the first beverage you laid eyes on before shutting it. “Wait… How’d I know the singer was Cole Porter?”

That… shouldn’t have been possible, right? You were certain that you had never heard the song the radio had been playing… So _why_ did it resonate with you so strongly?

“Whatever. I have a date with Lucifer.”

**Author's Note:**

> Reader is referring to Lucifer Morningstar from _Lucifer_ , not Hazbin Hotel’s Lucifer. 
> 
> Both are amazing shows. I own neither _Lucifer_ or Hazbin Hotel, obviously.
> 
> But are you picturing how salty Alastor is hearing that quote yet, dear reader?


End file.
